


Auld Lang Syne

by bittenfeld



Category: Highlander: The Series
Genre: F/M, Het, Swordplay
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-21
Updated: 2015-04-24
Packaged: 2018-03-25 04:35:49
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,907
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3796903
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bittenfeld/pseuds/bittenfeld
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A memory from Duncan’s past reappears, with a terrible secret, and a terrible request for Duncan.</p><p>Final chapter - ch 2: Duncan balked.  “Connor, I’m not an omniscient god-head, and neither are you.  It’s easy to talk about it here over tea – it’s another thing to be faced with it in the middle of battle.”<br/>“Do you think I don’t know that?” Connor retorted.    Do you know how many battles I’ve been in?  How many mortals I’ve loved?”  Idly the older man stirred his coffee, allowing a long moment of silence to pass between them before asking in a low voice, “So, are you going to take his head?  Do you want me to?”</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

Her body was so warm, and his was so hot, and all he needed now, here on the mossy ground beneath the pines, was her surrender… such blissful sweet surrender.

She smiled up at him spraddling her hips. Her fingers caressed his long dark hair, toyed with the ponytail gather at his nape, drew the tresses forward over his shoulder to play with them some more. And the pert little grin crinkled the corners those cerulean eyes and teased pale pink lips. And a pair of twin mounds pointed their little twin nubs up at him in the _sauciest_ manner. All making it very clear that if he expected any kind of surrender, he’d better be prepared to make his demands a _lot_ more obvious.

Well, if obvious was what she wanted, obvious was what she’d get.

The impish little smile sparked a twinkle in his own dark eyes watching; then with a throaty rumble, he covered her, pressing her into the dirt, capturing her wrists over her head, crushing those firm twin mounds to his own chest, covering pink lips with his own voracious mouth, sucking the breath from her lungs, appropriating her very essence. Of its own accord, his muscular body began undulating over her soft flesh, his stiff cock sliding against her mons, then slipping between her thighs, seeking those private recesses that beckoned to him, so warm, so sweet, so wet… and her woman-scent mingled with the aroma of pine and moss and lichen…

Beneath him, she moaned past his tongue filling her mouth, dueled momentarily with her own tongue, stroked his, licked it; and her slim form arched to match his rocking, and that sweet sweet cunny opened itself to him so eagerly.

Trembling with barely-checked need, he angled into place, then slid home, pushed as deep as he could go, in one long firm thrust, into tight moist warmth, and it was so good… so good… his eyes rolled up in his head, and he moaned his desperation.

Her gasp echoed him, her lips pressed to his cheek; and she sighed, “oh, Mac… please, Mac … tell me…” – the voice lowering an octave – “tell me…” – another octave… suddenly coloring darkly… heavily… demandingly – “tell me…” – savagely… hellishly – “… _tell me, Duncan MacLeod, you cur-whelped mongrel: are ye ready to lose your head_ ?!”  
* *

He dived out of bed, not even awake yet from the luscious dream, as his right hand grabbed the katana off the bed-side table, and his body hunkered on the floor, heart hammering beneath his sternum. Bright alertness flashed through his brain a split-second later, fired by an adrenalin surge singing through blood and nerves.

… _what the hell_ ?! …

The nape of his neck bristled at the static discharge of psychic energy buzzing the room.

He was not alone.

… _one of his own kind_ … here… seeking his blood… _seeking his head_… _Damn_! how had he allowed himself to be caught off-guard so easily?

Lungs dragged gulps of air, even as he attempted to stifle all sound.

A laugh, from the other side of the bed, the other side of the room. A _familiar_ laugh…

“Weel, will you nae answer me?” the intruder taunted again in a distinct Scottish brogue. “Or has Duncan MacLeod already lost his tongue?” A very familiar voice.

… but _why_ was it familiar?... The answer eluded him. Something hidden a long way back in memory.

His grip on the weapon tightened, as a battle plan coalesced in his brain. At least he knew the layout of the room in the dark a hell of a lot better than his opponent did.

Carefully he maneuvered to the end of the bed, locking his breath in his throat. His naked body slid almost noiselessly along the polished hardwood floor. The steel blade pressed coldly against his skin as he held it close, prepared.

Again the voice. “Dinna be such a rude host, MacLeod.”

And then the overhead light flared on – retina-blinding glare; yet even in his blindness he surged up, lunged for the space near the wall-switch where the intruder had to be, sword blade hissing, glinting back a hundred reflections from the chandelier… and steel sliced through thin air, to clatter uselessly against the bare wall

The laugh again, this time from halfway across the room. And this time Duncan MacLeod looked around to locate the enemy, blade erect; then half-dazzled eyes lit upon a figure he had never thought to see again.

Stunned breath caught in his throat, muscles tightened involuntarily; then the sword-tip dropped to the floor, attack dismissed in a moment.

“Aidan Cameron.” More than just the light dazzled him now. He stared at the grinning man who was obviously enjoying his discomposure. He could scarcely regain his breath, and when he did, he cursed negligently. “You damn fool… I nearly took your head off!... By all the saints – _Aidan Cameron_!”

The lithe curly-haired man winked. He too held a sword loosely at his side, as he surmised, “I ken the saints would care little for my company. The Devil now – that, of course, is a different tale.”

Regaining a measure of his lost equanimity, MacLeod approached his visitor, a dazed smile appropriating his countenance, as he gazed shamelessly at the wry face before him. “The saints or the Devil – I thought you were among them now. I thought you joined them two-hundred-and-fifty years ago.”

A tilt of head acknowledged. “Well, at the time, I was grievously close. Our dear acquaintance Tamar tried to send me on that final journey. Unfortunately he was so intent upon enjoyin’ my misfortune that he took too long to complete the job, and got interrupted. Meanwhile I was freed and carried off to recuperate in peace… for which I shall ever be grateful to our secret little friend.”

MacLeod just continued staring, as if not entirely convinced of the flesh-and-blood solidity of the figure before him. “But I don’t understand. Why didn’t he just kill you, when he had you? You were trussed hand and foot. He could have beheaded you in a moment.”

“Ah, but a moment was not what he wanted.” And lifting a hand to his collar, the man bared his throat. A thick whitish discolored keloid scored the flesh from ear to ear. A macabre memento. “Tamar chose not to do it with one quick stroke. He assured me that he would let me feel every inch as he separated my head from my body. To my good fortune, I lost consciousness before he got too far. And even more fortunately, our little friend prevented his completion, or I would be lacking a most important appendage now.”

A frown creased MacLeod’s brow as he scrutinized the grotesque mutilation. Pain tautened his face. “I felt you slip,” he admitted, voice tight with the old, old memory. “I was nearly unconscious from my own wounds, when I felt your force begin to drain. I don’t remember anything past that. I too was taken away to heal. I was told you had died. All these years, Cam… My god, all these years…” Lifting a hand to finger the savage mark, he stroked along its path as if a touch could erase it, rescind the reality it represented. “I never expected to see you again.”

Then roughly his grasp clutched the back of his friend’s neck, brought the stubbled cheek against his own, and he breathed against the ear once more, “… my god, Cam…” A tight throat choked off any further sound. And he was not ashamed of the adrenalin overload which quivered his body and trembled his limbs, nor of the wetness which filled his eyes.

Responsively the other man mirrored him, fingers digging deep into the root of his ponytail, gripping him tightly as if the embrace could make up for irretrievable centuries.

For a lingering moment neither said a word. Then as their heads parted, Cameron grinned again. A slight shrug of shoulder, a tiny wink to answer the pain in Duncan’s face. “All these years, I’ve been attempting to return. But during the past two-and-a-half centuries, other duties and necessities intervened.”

MacLeod turned his back, tossed the now-superfluous weapon onto the disheveled bed. “We were set up,” he announced, and irritation edged his voice.

“Of course we were,” Cameron agreed easily.

“Tamar was told we were waiting for him. Someone informed him. And it wasn’t just enough for him to ambush us – he deliberately burned the village down… and anyone who tried to escape, he forced back into to the flames.” Moisture glistened in brown eyes, voice rasped a dark whisper. “I watched those people choose to die rather than give us up. _I watched them_. But then someone betrayed us anyway.”

“Aye, they did.” There was nothing more to be said.

Drawing his robe from the back of a nearby chair, the brunet slipped into it, tied the belt around his waist. “Did Tamar ever lose his head? Did you finally get to him and take him down?”

“I didna’ – but someone did. He’s dead now, and I’m certain Hell is the hotter for his presence.”

Again MacLeod could only gaze at his friend. “Well, I’m glad you came back. I’m glad you’re alive.”

“I’m glad I’m alive too.” A twinkle glimmered in hazel eyes. “I came back for several reasons, Duncan. First, I have something that belongs to you.”

And he held up the weapon he carried: an ancient claymore; gazed at the still-lustrous blade, then offered it to MacLeod, hilt first. “Ye dropped this in battle. I was thinkin’ all these years ye’d be wantin’ it back.”

Curious, not quite believing, Duncan took the long-sword. The weighted haft felt good in his right hand, his sword-hand; it fit his grip the way it had been crafted to. The highly-polished steel still glinted brightly – no rust tarnished the old blade, no decay pitted the honed edge. Disbelief shifted into reverence. “I never thought to see this again either. It was given to me on my fifteenth birthday. Tavin made it for me, crafted it for me, and taught me how to use it. Gave me a few cuts with it too.” A smile replaced the previous frown. “He said if I was to be entrusted with such a fine blade, I should learn to respect it greatly.”

“And did ye?”

The grin tilted the corner of Duncan’s lips. “Well, it was either that, or lose some fingers to it! Tavin made sure his students never forgot their lessons.” Fondly his free hand caressed the guard, as he turned the heavy blade in the light for a few more admiring moments. “I’ve missed this one for many years. Thank you for keeping it for me.”

Then laying it aside with the katana on the bed, he looked at his old friend. “You said there were other reasons as well that you came back. What?”

Pulling the chair closer and settling down, Cameron frowned as though the rest of his reasons were not as pleasant as the first. “There’s trouble at the old home.”  
* * * * *

[ _interim scenes to be written later]_

_  
* * * * *_

“I’m the one who sold us out.”

The pronouncement fell on stunned ears. For a moment, Duncan didn’t respond, as if his brain couldn’t quite decipher what he had just heard. He frowned. “What?”

“I’m the one,” Cameron repeated. “I told Tamar about our ambush.”

Slowly Duncan’s head turned toward his companion. The announcement was still incomprehensible. “What are you talking about, Cam?”

“Do you remember, Duncan, you’d mentioned I seemed out of sorts that morning.”

“Did I?”

“One of Tamar’s men had left word with McIntyre, that Tamar held my wife – he had Donalda – and that he would harm her if I didn’t surrender both of us to him.”

MacLeod just stared at his old friend. “Perhaps he was bluffing – were you certain?”

Cameron nodded, eyes closed, brow creased with the old pain. “Aye. The note was written in her script. I didna’ ken what to do. I couldna’ bear the thought of Tamar taking her to himself – I would rather have died than let her suffer… so I sent word back to him about our attack.”

Slowly Duncan’s face began to go rigid with cold anger. “Then why aren’t we both dead? We were both wounded – he could have taken both our heads. When I went down, you ordered Farrell to hide me and tend me.”

Emotion broke Cameron’s voice. “Because I couldna’ go through with it! I could no more betray you than I could Donalda.” Eyes moistened with the long-ago hurt. “I begged Tamar to kill me but spare her. But the monster said he had already taken her… and that when he returned to camp … the rest of his crew would have her.” The moisture welled up into overflowing tears. “I was so injured, I could do nothing to protect my wife… I wanted to rip his head from his body with my bare hands, but I was too weak to do it. He bound my hands and feet, then told me he would behead me slowly, let me feel it as he slit my throat. Then he made me watch as he began it… and I couldn’t even scream…” Unconsciously the fingers of his right touched the old scar, rubbed it.

Duncan felt his face go cold; the memories of the event so freshly colored behind his eyes, as if it had just happened last week, instead of two-and-a-half centuries ago. He could hardly find his own voice. “So why are you still alive? Why didn’t he finish the job?”

“He nearly did… but then as I lay dying, he put the knife down and said that he’d changed his mind. He mocked me, said he understood why I couldn’t betray you, as my sword-brother. But if I would instead bring other Immortals to him, he would let me live, and as long as I obeyed, Donalda would be left alone. I couldn’t speak, I couldn’t say aye or nay… Then the next think I knew, I was back at his camp the next morning, healing, and Donalda was with me.”

Duncan looked down. A sickness churned in his gut. He didn’t know what to say, he just knew he’d say the wrong thing if he opened his mouth right then.

Cameron’s moist eyes pleaded. “So, the real reason I came back now, Duncan, is to ask you a dear favor… I have carried the guilt and pain of my sin for two-and-a-half centuries. I can no longer bear it. Please… if you can allow our old friendship to count for something over the anger you are feelin’ right now… I beg you… Duncan MacLeod… please… end my suffering. Please… take my head.”

At that, Duncan’s attention snapped up. “No!” he insisted urgently. “Cameron…!”

“Duncan, I beg you… As my sword-brother… If there is any forgiveness for me in heaven for my terrible sins… please…”

Taking his friend’s shoulders, MacLeod looked the other man in the eye. “Aidan. I cannot kill you.”

“Why not? Sooner or later friends will have to kill friends.”

“It hasn’t come to that yet.”

“But it will, as the Gathering approaches. Soon we willna’ have any choice. So take me now, please. Take my power and use it to find Tamar. I give it to you freely.”

“You said Tamar was dead.”

“I spoke deceptively. He is still alive. Please.”

“Cameron…” Head swimming, Duncan stepped away,   “Friends may not have the choice later, but we have it now. And as long as I do, I won’t take an innocent life.”

“Who is innocent? A betrayer of friends? A coward who runs because he is afraid to die? I was desperate and I was weak.”

“You did the best you could at the time. You wanted to protect Donalda. And she was a mortal. It our duty to protect the mortals.”

“By sacrificing how many other lives? What is the price of one mortal life – five Immortals? ten?”

“That isn’t the point.”

“Or should I have let him kill her? After all, she lived only thirty-three years after that.” Anguish quivered the man’s body as tears rolled down his cheeks. “Should she have been made to sacrifice those thirty-three years so that ten Immortals would live?”

Comfortingly Duncan moved up to him again, took him in an embrace.

Snuffing back a runny nose, Cameron regained a little of his composure. “But even after she died, and Tamar had no more hold over me, I ran away like a frightened cur. I couldna’ even stand up to him and demand a fight for what he’d done to me and to my wife. By all the saints, I wanted his head, I wanted to make him suffer… But instead I acted no better than a toothless whipped mongrel.”

“You acted pragmatically,” Duncan assured. “You couldn’t have taken him then. He had absorbed the strength of other Immortals by then. He was too strong. If you’d tried, he would have gotten your head and your strength. How would that have avenged Donalda? Or any of the others?”

The man’s tear-wet face pressed to Duncan’s shoulder. He shook his head. “I’ve had to live with guilt all these years that I sentenced many friends to death – saving our two lives at the expense of many. I canna’ live with myself anymore. I’m tired of running. I’m tired of killing. I’d rather die than play this game as a puppet of Destiny any longer. Please. Do this for me. You are my sword-brother, Duncan. Please. You take my power.”

Without a word, Duncan just held him.

Cameron sighed heavily. “I’m so weary. Can ye understand that?”

“Yes,” Duncan assured, resting his cheek against springy curls, hands comforting, heart absorbing the man’s pain. “I understand, brother. But I cannot take your life. I cannot. Please do not ask that of me.”

* * * * *

 _to be continued_ …


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Duncan balked. “Connor, I’m not an omniscient god-head, and neither are you. It’s easy to talk about it here over tea – it’s another thing to be faced with it in the middle of battle.”  
> “Do you think I don’t know that?” Connor retorted. Do you know how many battles I’ve been in? How many mortals I’ve loved?” Idly the older man stirred his coffee, allowing a long moment of silence to pass between them before asking in a low voice, “So, are you going to take his head? Do you want me to?”

Slouched at the breakfast table, warming both hands around his coffee cup, Connor MacLeod shifted his attention to look down over the balustrade to the exhibit floor of the antique shop, where Tessa was engaging Aidan Cameron in a discussion about an item in one of the display cases – a 17th century bagpipe. Cameron was offering a detailed account of his own personal experience with simi­lar pipes from the time.

“So, Cameron was your sword-brother?” the elder MacLeod commented to Duncan, who joined his clansman at the table with his own cup of tea.

Duncan reached for the sugar bowl, added a cube to his cup. “Yes, we were inseparable, fighting side by side for eight years, until we faced Tamar at the massacre at Lochfaeire in 1716. I thought Aidan had been killed.”

“Who is Tamar?”

“He is an evil Immortal. At the time, he and his marauders were terrorizing the countryside. Cameron and I had been helping defend the small village of Lochfaeire against him, and in return, the villagers hid us, for Tamar knew of us and wanted our heads. But one day, while we were lying in wait to ambush him, Tamar and his band ambushed us. Someone had betrayed us. A battle ensued, and both Cameron and I were wounded. Before Tamar could capture us, Cameron dragged me to a hiding place, then asked one of the villagers to care for me, as he went back to battle. Unfortunately Tamar quickly captured him. Then in retaliation for the villagers’ defiance, Tamar ordered the village torched and all the inhabitants killed. The last thing I remember was Cameron bound before Tamar and Tamar preparing to behead him.”

Thoughtfully Connor MacLeod nodded, eyes still on the couple down below. “So then Tamar blackmailed Cameron, in return for his wife’s and his own life, to act as a Judas goat and draw other Immortals to Tamar’s blade.”

“Yes.”

“And now he wants you to absolve him of his sins and take his head.”

A sharp breath blew from Duncan’s nostrils. “Connor, it’s easy to accuse Cameron for what he did. There are no easy answers for our fate. You know that. Donalda was his wife. And she was a mortal. We cannot separate ourselves from mortals. We befriend them – we marry them. It’s un­for­tunate when they become entangled in the our conflict. I can’t say how I would have chosen had it been me, instead of Cam. Suppose some day Tessa is threatened?”

Connor’s gaze shifted to his clansman across the table. “You’ll make the right choice.”

“Connor, I’m not an omniscient god-head, and neither are you. It’s easy to talk about it here over tea – it’s another thing to be faced with it in the middle of battle.”

“Do you think I don’t know that? Do you know how many battles I’ve been in? How many mortals I’ve loved?” Idly the older man stirred his coffee, allowing a long moment of silence to pass between them before asking in a low voice, “So, are you going to take his head? Do you want me to?”

Resignedly Duncan shook his head. "What I want is for us to go after Tamar. He’s been tracking Cameron all these years, and killing other Immortals along the way. He’s extremely power­ful now, and needs to be stopped.”

A familiar twinkle sparkled in Connor’s eye, ameliorating the dark tone of their conversation. “Well, you know I never could resist a lopsided battle.”  
* * * * *

Later in the middle of the night, Duncan is wide awake, trying to assimilate all this, trying to deal with all the emotions roiling in his gut.

Tessa wakes up beside him. She has been away for the past week in Europe, on an antiques-buying excursion, coming home to find two of Duncan’s old friends staying as houseguests, and a dark moodiness in the atmosphere. She knows that he’s been disturbed all day, obviously distraught, and asks what’s troubling him?

He tells her, says he might end up taking Cameron’s life. Up ‘til now, he’s only killed evil Immortals, never a good one, and certainly never a friend.

She reminds him, a little bluntly, that he’s always known it would come down to friends kill­ing friends, if only one is to ultimately survive – “Isn’t that what you’ve been saying all along? Haven’t you really thought this through before, what that really means to be the last one? What if some day you have to face your clansman and mentor, Connor MacLeod? could you kill him? could he kill you?”

He snaps back at her bluntness, “Of course I’ve thought it through – more than you’ll ever know. I’ve had four-hundred years to think about it.” But up until now, it’s just been in the abstract. He’s never had to actually face it so realistically before.

She tries to soothe him, apologizes gently – she didn’t intend to add to his distress. She hates the fatalism of his whole situation as much as he does.

But then he acknowledges her words. She’s right. Yes, that’s exactly what it means. Maybe someday he _will_ have to face Connor. Right now, he may have to face Cameron very shortly. And if he does kill Cameron, then he’s as bad as Tamar, because that’s what Tamar’s been doing all these years – just trying to survive this game the only way he must.

Tessa reminds him the difference is that Tamar was using Cameron to betray the others, not facing them in a fair fight.

But Duncan just shakes his head. “There is no difference. Each of us fights to be the last one. Each of us kills. One by one, we must kill the others of us, good or evil. We are nothing but mur­derers, and each of us commits our crimes not just during one normal life-span, but throughout the centuries. So, who of us is really moral? Who of us truly deserves to live? Which of us has the audacity to consider ourselves worthy to rule this world? to be its god-head? to rule humanity?

Tessa urges him not to continue thinking about it, letting his mind run in circles. The Immor­tals are fated to play this game, like it or not, so railing against it will only drive a man mad.

Duncan only makes a rueful face. “Having to live this way will drive a man mad. Killing to survive, living only to kill.” And the last one will have all of eternity alone, with no one his equal to talk with, to share with, no one who really understands. And he will have to live with the knowledge that he’s responsible for killing his friends, he’s slaughtered the only people he _could_ relate to. He’s committed genocide. That’s eternal Hell. But on the other hand, that’s all he would deserve for sins of such magnitude. Duncan says he can understand the hell and the guilt and the madness that Cameron has been living with all these years.

Tessa tries to rescind her earlier bluntness. “What you’re talking about is all in the future. You don’t know how it’s going to turn out. You have to think about the present. You can’t let Tamar win. He is evil. You have to find him and stop him.”

“You mean I have to kill him. And I will probably kill Cameron. And someday maybe Con­nor too. And how many more?”

Reluctantly she has to admit, yes, kill them.

“Yes,” Duncan agrees. “And then someone should kill me, and then someone should kill him. Because we are all immoral. None of us deserves to live.”

Tessa tries to reassure him, but there’s not much to say.

Duncan admits he doesn’t know – if it really comes down to it soon – if he can kill Cameron or not.  
* * * * *

Finally Cameron confronts Duncan.

Cameron bemoans, “what does it matter, the villagers would have all died anyway, sooner or later. They were all mortals, not one would be alive today anyway, even if the battle had never hap­pened.”

Duncan insists, “that’s not what we were put here for.”

“… and just like the villagers, all of the Immortals are going to die anyway, all but one, since there will be only one left in the End.”

Duncan just retorts, “you don’t know who that last one will be – it’s not your place to decide who’s going to die, or when.”

Cameron finally says, if Duncan won’t kill him, then he’s going to kill Duncan. He needs to find Tamar and right the wrong he committed so many years ago by running away. But to do that, he needs greater strength than what he has – he needs Duncan’s head.

Duncan tries to say, “what good will killing me do? That will only be one more death on your soul.”

“What soul?” Cameron retorts. “How can any of us have a soul, we who are fated to play out the criminal games of some cruel god? We’re just pawns, just puppets of this twisted Destiny which controls our whole race.”

Duncan argues, “if you really believed that, you wouldn’t be drowning in your own guilt, this self-hatred which eats you alive, that has made you beg me to take your life. Let us stop this talk of killing, and instead live. Let’s work together to defeat Tamar and the other evil ones who pollute our race.”

But Cameron will not be swayed. “The only way we can work together is for one of us to take the power of the others within. Only one will ultimately survive, one with the power of all the others.” He picks up his sword. “So, if it isn’t going to be you, it may as well be me.”

Defensively Duncan steps back, watching Cameron’s hands in dismay, but he makes no move to arm himself. “Cam, please,” he begs, “stop this madness. Don’t lose your senses.”

Cameron’s sword swings at him, not really close enough to hit him, but enough so Duncan jumps back.

“Damn you, MacLeod, fight me!” Cameron insists. Again he swings. At first they’re just wild swings, but then one swipes seriously close, so that Duncan stumbles and falls backward.

He rolls and grabs his sword, the old claymore, rolls to his feet. He’s hunched, the sword before him, but it’s a defensive stance, not an attack posture.

Now Cameron’s attacks are more serious, as they circle together, Cameron lunging, swiping, Duncan parrying but not riposting.

Then Cameron gets a strike through, gashes Duncan’s arm. The pain jerks Duncan alert as he realizes just how serious Camneron is. In his concern not to hurt Cameron, he own skill is suffering. He begins to fight stronger now, still not wanting to kill; but in addition to just defending himself, he tries to wound Cameron, to at least stop the duel.

His greater intensity spurs a stronger aggressiveness in Cameron, who really seems to be going for Duncan's head now. Their skill is nearly equal.

Again Cameron wounds Duncan, maybe even a strike to his neck. In reaction, instinct takes over Duncan, who is now fighting for his life. It’s no longer simply a holding action. He may have to kill Cameron after all.

Cameron’s face is set with determination. Again he attacks; then as Duncan parries and counter-attacks, as Duncan’s blade swings for his head, Cameron deliberately drops his sword and just stands there; in the split-second, when Duncan can’t stop the momentum of the swinging wea­pon, he sees the ghost of a calm smile on Cameron’s lips.

Then the blade hisses through his neck; Cameron’s head drops off, then a moment later his body topples to the ground. Duncan’s weapon drops limply to his side, and dumbly he just stands there staring at his friend’s body, realizing what he’s just done.

Then the Quickening strikes Duncan like a million volts. His body jerks with the electric shock, spasming gawkily as he screams and screams.

Finally, after it dissipates, he’s left exhausted and sick, not only physically, but mentally and emotionally as well, knowing it came at the expense of his friend’s life. He’s on his elbows and knees, face on the floor, sweat-drenched, trembling, retching, shuddering.

Then slowly he regains his feet. He is not the same man he was a minute ago – he has ab­sorbed Cameron’s life now, including all the man’s guilt and soul-killing pain.  
* * * * *

Tamar is furious that he’s lost Cameron’s head. He retaliates by kidnapping Tessa and Richie, hurting Duncan the same way that he hurt Cameron two-hundred years before. He wants Duncan to take Cameron’s place as a Judas goat.

Connor notes that Duncan is now in Cameron’s place – what decision is he going to make? Duncan merely announces, there is only one answer: he is going to fight Tamar and take his head.

Duncan tell Tamar that he refuses to be his Judas goat.

Tamar won’t tell Duncan where Tessa and Richie are, but he’ll let him talk to them. When Duncan refuses to submit, Tamar beats Richie. Over the phone, Richie is in pain, tells Duncan that Tamar broke his wrist or his nose or something. Duncan can hear the boy’s pain.

Tamar taunts Duncan – the longer you refuse, the more they’ll be hurt. (has he raped or threatened to rape Tessa?) Duncan only responds, “Everything you do to them only give me one more reason to make you suffer before I take your head.” Tamar reminds him, “If you kill me, you’ll never find your friends.” Then as a further mockery, he adds, “But of course, to our kind, what do the deaths of a couple of mortals mean, anyway? The frail things are ephemeral as mayflies. What does it matter if they die tomorrow, or twenty years, or fifty years from now?”

Duncan in a deadly voice, asserts, “It matters.”  
* * * * *

Duncan and Tamar ultimately battle. Connor offers to be there, but Duncan says no, this is his – and Cameron’s – battle. They have some clues now where Tessa and Richie are, so Duncan sends Connor to find them and rescue them. If Duncan loses the battle, Connor can then face Tamar, but at least Tamar won’t have Tessa and Richie as pawns any longer. Something comes out in their conversation that since Cameron’s power and knowledge are now a part of Duncan, it’s like this is also Cameron’s final revenge and redemption of honor.

The fight is brutal, bloody, and savage – after all, Tamar has the power of a hundred other Immortals – but Duncan is fighting with something of a righteousness that seems to transcend simple mass power.

Finally after an exhausting struggle, Duncan defeats Tamar, hamstrings him, gets him on his knees. He’s on his knees as well, gripping Tamar in a headlock. Tamar has a dagger, which Duncan has grabbed, and he puts the edge to Tamar’s throat. He wants to mutilate Tamar, cut him up, then behead him slowly just as Tamar once did to Cameron, although there is no way to make him pay for all his treachery and villainy.

Tamar will still not tell where Tessa and Richie are. He’s not bluffing, and Duncan knows it. But neither is Duncan.

Nevertheless, Duncan’s morality will not allow him to torture Tamar.

He regains his feet, takes his claymore, and stands before his enemy. He orders Tamar to rise up as best he can. Tamar straightens on his knees, still taunting. Maybe Duncan can’t bring himself to physically torture the man, but he wants Tamar to see the death-stroke. Then Duncan raises the heavy sword in front of its victim while Tamar watches, then swings it down for the kill.

And once again the Quickening overtakes him.  
* * * * *

Afterwards he goes to find Connor and Tessa and Richie. Tessa and Richie were already escaping when Connor found them – Richie, being an ex-thief, had a few tricks up his sleeve as to how to get out of tight situations.  
* * * * *

Back home, Duncan, Tessa, and Connor talk.

Tessa asks if he feels any different – when an Immortal gains another’s power, what does it feel like? Duncan really can’t explain it, but he says, yes, you do gain the other person’s knowledge and power, but you also gain all their pain, all their centuries of pain. And each time, the strain of assimilating that darkness, that agony, makes it more difficult for the next. It’s a costly price to pay.

Tessa reminds him, that is the difference between good men and evil ones. Evil men relish in other people’s pain; good men are appalled and sickened by it.

And at least he did right by his old friend. Although because Cameron tricked him into kill­ing him, Duncan still hasn’t answered to himself whether or not he’ll be able to deliberately kill a friend when – if – it ever comes down to that. He and Connor look at each other.

Then Connor cracks a smile, and teases, “If it ever comes down to you and me, you still won’t know, because I’ll obviously win.”

“You?” Duncan retorts, getting into the humor. “What makes you so sure it’ll be you?”

Playfulness squints Connor’s eyes. “Because your technique is terrible.”

“No it isn’t.”

“Yes it is – I’ve always said so.”

“Not when I whipped your ass back in New Orleans.”

“New Orleans – that was a hundred-and-thirty-two years ago. And your technique was terrible then too – you just happened to catch me drunk.”

And so the banter goes…

  
* * * * * **FINIS** * * * * *


End file.
